Things I Can't Spell
by GoodfortheSoul
Summary: Just a little sexy, snarky Spuffy pillow talk. Season 6, post-"Older and Far Away" and pre-"As You Were." One-shot.


**Just a little sexy, snarky Spuffy pillow talk. Season 6, post-"Older and Far Away" and pre-"As You Were." **

**Usual Disclaimer: I don't own anything. **

Things I Can't Spell

They lay sprawled on Spike's bed. Both on their backs. Not touching. A sheen of sweat covering their naked bodies. Sheets and blankets were scattered about the floor or scrunched up at the foot of the bed. A cigarette dangled from Spike's hand, which he occasionally, leisurely, took a drag from, savoring it, prolonging his pleasure.

They had ended up there somehow. Buffy wasn't quite sure when or how they had wound up on the bed. Or how or when they had come downstairs. A trail of clothing and destruction marked their frenzied, desperate movement through Spike's crypt. The evidence of the violence and the sex, the proof of her pleasure and her shame.

Dawnie was staying at a friend's house. Buffy had gone out for her nightly patrol. She hadn't meant to go to Spike's cemetery. But she had ended up there. She hadn't meant to go anywhere near his crypt. But she had walked straight to it. She hadn't meant to go inside. But she had walked in, as usual, without knocking. She hadn't meant to have sex with him, again. But she had pushed him up against the wall, kissing him, pulling off his shirt, with only the fewest preemptory salutations. He had known why she was there. There had been no need for wordiness.

That had been four hours ago.

Spike brought his cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag, exhaling the smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Well, I'd say that was a bloody good night's work, Slayer. You sure know how to give it to the big bads around here." He propped himself up on his elbow, gazing at her. "Fuck, you're amazing. So beautiful. And the things you do… God, I love you, Buffy." He reached out his free hand to touch her shoulder. She looked away, rejecting his touch, rebuffing his words. "Right. Best not to talk. Wouldn't want to ruin your night with conversation or anything. Just here to be your sodden sex slave."

She felt a pang of guilt. She was using him. It was cruel. It was wrong. And she couldn't stop. "Spike," she said softly, "you're pretty amazing, too."

"You set the course, love. I just tag along."

"That's so not true. There are things that you do. Things I've never seen, never even heard of. They are so… wrong. Like the thing you did with my legs, crossing them like that. What was that?" she blushed. She didn't like talking to him like this, acknowledging, in spite of herself, how good he made her feel. Saying it aloud made it all the more real, all the less erasable. She didn't want to admit it to herself, let alone to him.

"So wrong, but it feels so good" he grinned, "That's your sodden theme song, Summers."

"And the other one when I was half off the bed and you were standing. Is that even legal?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly in the position to call Bobby, and, for that matter, neither were you. Not a bad position to be in though. Liked that one did you?"

"No." There was a moment of silence, her lie hanging in the air. "And who the hell is Bobby?"

He laughed. "He's not invited."

She looked at him confused, "You're bent."

"And it hits you in just the right spot, doesn't it, love."

"No. It's degrading. It's totally perverse."

"It's not perverse. It's pleasure. The sooner you figure that out, let yourself go, surrender to the pleasure, let it burn you, consume you," he purred, running his hand up her inner thigh, his finger tips lightly grazing her skin, tantalizing her, tempting her. She moaned gently, relaxing her legs, spreading them, and he pulled his hand away, his fingers lightly brushing against her clit, a whisper, a hint, a teasing promise of contact, "the happier you'll be, Buffy."

She so did not want to be having this conversation with him, but she couldn't stop herself. A problem she had been having way too often when it came to him. "How did you learn it all? How to do those… things?"

"Century of practice, pet."

Another minute of silence. Not jealous, not jealous, not jealous, Buffy repeated to herself. She didn't care who else Spike had sex with. She was just using him. Not jealous. He was just convenient. He was an evil dead thing. A convenient evil dead thing who knew exactly how to get her off, but an evil dead thing nonetheless. And she was the Slayer. Period. The end. No further questions. Except, why was she here, doing this, with him? But that was a question she would rather not think about. Ever.

"One advantage to fucking a vampire, you know," he continued, "Experience. But you," his fingers grazed her cheek, "you are a natural."

She looked away from him. "There is nothing natural about this, Spike."

He shrugged, "Suit yourself, Summers. Do you think that any of those little boys, little Dickie at your party, could make you feel the way I do? Could make you come as fast, as hard, as often?"

"I knew there was a reason why we don't do the talky thing. Thanks for reminding me. You're a pig, Spike."

"And you like it. There must be some reason I get you hot, Slayer. Don't tell me you were ever so satisfied. That whole year shagging Captain Cardboard did he ever make you scream? Doubt it. Boring bugger probably never got out of the missionary."

"Pig."

"Oink, bloody, Oink. Call me what you want, Buffy, but you crave me. That's why you keep coming back to roll around in the mud with me. Why you are here now," he took a drag on his smoke. "You can run away all you like, but you've got appetites that you can't feed elsewhere. And when the craving strikes you come around looking for some sausage and a slab of bacon."

"That's disgusting."

"Whats the matter, pet? Not Kosher. You didn't seem to mind when I was porking you."

"Ew. You're disgusting. I'm disgusted with myself. I can't believe I let you do those things to me. Let you talk to me like this. Its degrading and perverse and it has to stop. I should go." She should go. Really. She shouldn't let him talk to her like this. She was the Chosen One. She shouldn't talk to him, period. She shouldn't be here, period. This was wrong and disgusting and unnatural and satisfying and it made her feel so good, so alive, and… No. Bad. Very Bad. It was a mistake. It had always been a mistake. Leave now.

"Right, this ditty again. Save it, Slayer."

"Whats that supposed to mean?"

"Tired of you getting all prim and proper and high and mighty and holier-than-fucking-thou is all. Doesn't work anymore. God knows I'm not holier than anyone. Evil, you know. But you're not all that much better. You've fallen to many times to crawl back up on your precious pedestal. You can play the bitch all you like, but I know what you are. What you want."

"I don't want you, Spike."

He scoffed at her. "Right. Which is why barge in here and tear my bloody clothes off," he gazed down the length of her body, "You're here, naked, in my bed because you get off on the witty repartee. Most times, you know, you have already run off at this point. Don't even stick around for the banter." He raised an eyebrow and smirked, "still a bit peckish tonight, pet? Craving another bite of my pork chop before you go?"

She pulled a blanket, crumpled at the edge of the bed, over her. She didn't like being so naked, exposed, vulnerable, in front of him. Not when he got that look in his eye, like he was ready to devour her. It made her feel uncomfortable… and hot… but uncomfortable and wrong. "Keep it up and you'll have a tender loin. Very tender loins, Spike."

"That's right, Slayer, make it hurt," he growled. "And I don't have a lick of trouble keeping it up. But you already know that, don't you, pet?"

"You are so delusional. You think you're like some sort of god of sex or something. Don't flatter yourself. You're not. I'm that thing with the kneeling and the sitting. What even was that?"

He took a final drag of his cigarette before placing it in his ashtray next to his bed. He exhaled slowly. "Picotti."

"What now?"

"Picotti. It's the name of the position."

She looked at him quizzically, "Now you're just making things up."

"Don't believe me look it up. Kama Sutra. You might have heard of it?" He shifted his position on the bed, closing the distance between them, his lips grazing her ear. God, she hated how he made her feel all tingly. Hated him. Hated herself. "Actually, I should nick you a copy, pet. You might find that some interesting bedtime reading. Very education. Or I could just give you a few more hands-on demonstrations. You're a quick study. "

"Spell it?"

"Spell what?"

"Panna cotta or Pina Colada or whatever. If it's a real thing, spell it."

"Bloody hell, woman. Picotti. And I haven't the foggiest how to spell it, love. Maybe when some of the blood returns to my brain I'll let you know. I can do it the damn thing, you know, which is what counts." He paused for a minute, "And have you completely lost it? What is this, a sodden spelling bee?"

"Can you use it in a sentence?" Buffy smiled.

Spike grinned, curling his tongue against his front teeth. "Sorry, pet, thought we finished the oral part of this exam. But if you insist."

His breath, his tongue, his teeth moved down her body. She didn't stop him. So much better than talking. And soon she was moaning, gasping, bucking as she let herself give in to the craving, the pleasure, just one more time. Then she would leave.


End file.
